


Electronic Heartbeats

by AkumaStrife



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, clubbing AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated drabbles about the les amis clubbing, taken from a prompt list. Each chapter is a different pairing/situation. Pairing list will be updated as I post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bahorel/Feuilly

Feuilly grinned as he pulled back and placed a hand on the other man's chest—firm and insistent. "Be right back!" he shouted over the music.  

The man (Bahorel? At least he thought that was his name...) pouted, an expression that didn't look like it should be on someone over six feet and built like a train. He hooked his fingers through Feuilly's belt loops, dragging him closer again; a thick thigh between his own and teeth flashing through the darkness and colored lights. 

Feuilly groaned, mouth falling open a little on instinct. He could feel the pounding bass through his feet, the music thrumming through his bones. It was tempting... but he had to _pee_. Bad. 

"I'm serious!" he shouted again, but Bahorel just shook his head, playing dumb. Feuilly groaned and snatched at his hand, yanking him through the sea of sweat-slicked bodies. Bahorel went with him easy enough, pushing up against his back, seeming ignorant at how it made it difficult to walk. 

He laughed, despite himself, and muttered halfhearted obscenities by the time they made it to the back of the club. But when he turned to explain, Bahorel pushed him up against the sticky wall and kissed him hungrily.  

Feuilly let him for a moment.

Several moments.

Countless moments that left him dizzy and aching; arching away from the wall and blindly wondering if it was actually possible to 'climb someone like a tree'.

And then his bladder nearly rebelled. 

He yanked back and forced a hand between them over Bahorel's mouth to keep him from following, but it backfired when Bahorel nipped at his fingers, sucking them into his mouth with a wicked look that nearly had Feuilly’s knees giving out.

"You fucker," he wheezed. "I'm about to piss myself. Two minutes! Just give me two fucking minutes." He somehow managed to detangle himself, retrieving his fingers without losing them, and jabbed Bahorel in the shoulder as hard as he could while turning. "If you're not here when I get back I'm gonna be fucking pissed."

Two and half minutes later Feuilly reentered the deafening club and looked around wildly. “Fuck!”  

 


	2. Eponine/Musichetta

“Just go talk to her,” Grantaire said, making Eponine jump. She shot him a glare but accepted the drink he held, her gaze drawn back to the girl down the bar like a magnet. Wild curls and a body like an honest-to-god hourglass. And she was wearing a mini-skirt. _A mini-skirt._

_“_ She came with people,” Eponine said. She gestured at the group as she took a drink. “They’ve been trading off dancing. I don’t know which one’s her boyfriend. Or they both might be. Of course she has _two_ boyfriends.”

Grantaire hummed and theatrically squinted at the two guys flanking her. “You could take ‘em.” Eponine punched his arm. “Ow! See, you totally could!”

“I’m not gonna steal someone’s girl! Jesus christ, R, I’m not a complete asshole.”

“We are here for three sacred purposes,” he said, holding up three fingers and counting them off. “To have fun. To get trashed as hell. To get over freckle-face.”

Eponine grimaced and knocked back the rest of her drink. “Alright, alright! But I’m only checking!” 

Grantaire saluted with his bottle. “I’m ready if you get into a throw down.” 

The two guys had already left the girl’s side when Eponine walked up. She hesitated only for half a second, waiting for the girl’s curious smile before leaning against the bar close enough to be heard without invading personal space. 

“Will your boyfriends get mad if I buy you a drink?” She was treated to a frown, a look towards the dance floor, and then dawning realization. 

The girl laughed, head thrown back. “They’re my boys, but platonic only. I’m Musichetta.” She shifted forward, closer, looking her up and down deliberately slow. And then smiled.

“Eponine,” she replied. “So can I buy you that drink? Or do you wanna dance?”

Musichetta slid her hand into Eponine’s, tugging her away from the bar. “How about both? Dancing now, drinks after. Then we’ll see,” she said. Her hips were already swaying to the beat and Eponine’s mouth went dry. 


	3. Courfeyrac/Marius

A steady stream of apologies left Marius’ lips as he pushed through the dancing people, ducking arms and shimmying around couples as he tried to find the table where he and Courfeyrac had left most of Courfeyrac’s friends. They’d gone for another round of drinks and had some how ended up on the dance floor, and really that’s where the trouble began.  

He found it easy enough and smiled tentatively at them as a whole without actually meeting anyone’s eyes, dithering for a moment before taking a seat next to Bossuet.

“So, settling in at Courf’s alright? ” Bossuet asked kindly. “He’s glad to have you, y’know. He’s been needing a roommate.”

Marius nodded, then shook his head, then made a panicked sound that resembled a sheep. “He’s very nice, really! I appreciate… all the stuff he’s done and letting me live with him. But he’s… he’s very… um.” 

“Focused? Energetic?” Combeferre filled in. He stepped around Musichetta and Joly to join the conversation. 

Marius blushed and shrunk down into his shoulders. Besides being one of Courfeyrac’s best friends, in the week Marius had known him, Combeferre always looked like he knew something you didn’t. He made Marius nervous. 

“Handsy,” he admitted.

“Oh that,” Combeferre said, dismissive and unconcerned like a switch had been flipped. “He’s affectionate, yes. Do you mind?” And there was that stare again, boring into Marius’ brain almost.

“Not really. At the flat it’s been fine but—“

“He has a thing for you,” Bossuet interrupted. “Like an infatuation thing.”

“Bossuet!” Joly snapped and shoved his shoulder, nearly sending him crashing to the floor.

“Oh, sorry, was that supposed to be a secret?”

Marius blanched. “He what?” 

“Marius! There you are!” Courfeyrac came up and leaned against his back, arms hanging over his shoulders. “I lost you out there.” 

“Sorry,” he offered weakly. Courfeyrac started chatting with his friends over Marius’ head, and after a while Marius relaxed. Maybe it’d been a fluke before, while they were dancing. Or an accident. And maybe Bossuet was wrong. Courfeyrac was just very friendly and— _oh._

Courfeyrac had shifted, casual. And then his hand was on Marius’ ass again.

 


	4. Joly/Jehan

“Jolllly,” Jehan crooned, gripping Joly’s face between his hands. He’d stopped dancing abruptly and whirled on him too fast to stop, but still swaying to the song. Bahorel snickered next to them, but no one else seemed to notice, just danced on and kept other people from jostling them too much. “You are worthy of all the love and happiness in the world, and I don’t know how to give it to you. If you will even let me.”

Joly chuckled indulgently, reaching up to grip one of Jehan’s hands but didn’t pull it away. “You are either very drunk, or very high.” 

“There is poetry written into each of your fingertips and I wish to study them until I know them by heart.”

“Or both,” Joly amended.

“I wish to have them imprinted on my skin, so I can reflect them back at you.”

Joly didn’t know if he was blushing or the too warm feeling was due to alcohol. It wasn’t the first time Jehan had rattled poetry off at him, but the light in his eyes was different, the lit of his voice was stronger—purposeful, instead of the breezy tone he used when he was teasing.

“I wish to worship at your altar,” Jehan continued, earnest despite his glassy eyes. Joly was almost certain that was from a song, but couldn’t focus when Jehan was pulling his face closer, when the innocent words were laden with promises that were anything _but_. 

Glitter was smeared under one of Jehan’s eyes and Joly reached out unconsciously to rub at it with his thumb. “You flatter me,” he muttered, automatic.

“I wish to do much more than that.”

 


	5. Enjolras/Grantaire

They don’t need an excuse to come out clubbing, they never have, but final exams were especially tough on everything this term and even Enjolras comes out sans complaint. He does shots with Courfeyrac and Combeferre first, per tradition. Then does a round with Bahorel and Feuilly. When he buys the next round not long after, no one mentions it.

Courfeyrac and Jehan are the first out dancing, pulling Cosette with them, but they keep to the edges, waiting for the rest of them before getting lost in the crowd. And they follow, a few at a time until they’re a grinning mass of laughter and limbs, comfortable with the closeness in the midst of chaos. 

Enjolras catches a glimpse of Grantaire dancing with Eponine, then moving fluidly between Joly and Bossuet, looking easy and open. It’s routine and Enjolras doesn’t think much of it, beyond a slight pang of _something_ that makes his breath catch. They leave once, twice, in smaller groups for more shots—no one wanting to stop dancing long enough for anything more—and Enjolras’ is snug in the middle of a hazy buzz when the crowd shifts and Grantaire’s moved onto Jehan.

And then Bahorel.

And then Musichetta.

His first instinct is to glare, but he must be drunker than he thought because he can tell all that happens is an unhappy frown. 

When Courfeyrac sidles up to him and asks if he wants to do another round, he’s nodding before Courfeyrac’s even finished. He loses track of how many he’s had, as he watches Grantaire steadily work his way to each member of their group, smirking and rolling up against them, clearly enjoying himself. It’s obscene. No one should have the right to look that ravished and debauched. 

And yet not once does Grantaire approach him. Grantaire, who usually goes out of his way to get in his space when its completely inappropriate, hardly looks his way. Song after song, partner after partner. 

He tries to leave, to go back to a table and brood in peace where he doesn’t have to watch Grantaire, but Feuilly snags him around the waist. “Hey, you can’t leave. We’re supposed to be celebrating.” His words are slurred around the ends, his accent getting thicker, and Enjolras lets himself be pulled back into the dancing. But not even Feuilly at his back eases the tight ugly feeling in his stomach.

Grantaire’s in the middle of switching partners again, but close enough that Enjolras lunges forward and snags the back of his shirt. Grantaire looks shocked but Enjolras ignores it, tugs him closer and turns him so they’re face to face.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras snaps. There’s a disconnect somewhere between his brain and his mouth, the latter lagging just a second more than his liking. 

“Dancing?”

“You’ve been grinding on all our friends the whole night!" 

Grantaire scowls, bristling. “Yeah? S’never bothered you before.”

“That was before!”

Grantaire opens his mouth but then narrows his eyes, stepping fully into Enjolras’ space. For a moment Enjolras forgets why he’s upset. “How drunk are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you this wasted before.”

“It doesn’t matter! I wouldn’t have to drink this much if you weren’t… busy grinding on all our friends.” 

“What’s up with you and—“

“All our friends except me. It’s been hours! I demand an explanation!” 

“Because then I’d mean it,” Grantaire breathes, like he doesn’t mean to but it comes out anyways. 

Enjolras grabs his arms and kisses him. 


	6. Eposette

Eponine peered down at the ID and then back up at the china doll standing before her—a little too stiff, a little too still, a little too pretty. She grinned, slow and predatory. “This is so fake I can’t believe you actually paid for it,” she said.

Cosette’s eyes widened. 

The other bouncer stepped up beside her, but Eponine put up a hand. “Chill, it’s fine. She’s obviously a big girl. Can party if she wants.” She stepped aside and handed the fake ID back, motioning her into the club. But then grabbed Cosette’s delicate wrist as she passed. “Be careful in there, doll,” she said, the term equal parts ridicule and interest. “Lot of rough people would like to snatch up a pretty thing like you.”

Cosette’s eyes dropped to her mouth and then floated back up. “People like you?” 

Eponine laughed. “Yeah, like me.”

“You say that like I’d mind.” A smile pulled at her pretty pink lips as she slipped away, leaving Eponine reaching for air.

“Montparnasse—“ 

“Go,” he said, with a cruel grin that was more baring his teeth than anything. “I can handle this.”

Eponine ducked under his arm and into the club, the heat of so many bodies crowded together like a wall pressing in on all sides. She rose on her toes to search for that flash of white; following it through the dark like a moth drawn to flame. 

 


	7. Marius/Cosette

Marius fidgeted on the sidewalk outside the club as he called Courfeyrac’s cell for the forth time in as many minutes. He only got his voicemail again, and disconnected instead of leaving another slightly panicky message. He eyed the club with a frown, but took a deep breath and strode inside.

The noise and heat hit him like a wall, a shock from the relatively quiet and chilly night outside. He was jostled as he tried to skirt the edges, looking for his roommate. Not at the bar and not at any table—of course. He sighed and turned to the heaving mass of dancers. Somewhere in there was Courfeyrac and he had to go get him.

He started forward before he could talk himself out of it, but after three steps collided with someone and was only saved from tumbling over by trying to keep the other person upright and them responding in turn.

“I’m so sorry, please forg—“ He choked on his words as he got his feet stable and looked up. The young women watched him with worry, like she might’ve offended him. She was a vision. An angel. Lacy white dress and perfect white gold hair in spirals and curls; skin radiant and glowing under the lights.

“No, no, it was all me! Are you alright?” she asked, clutching his jacket at his shoulders. He still held her elbows and wasn’t inclined to let her go.

“Fine, fine, fine,” he blurted.

She gave him a funny little smile, glancing down as if realizing they were basically embracing each other. She let go and took a careful step back.

“Sorry again. I better find my friends,” she said, and then was gone, slipping through the crowd easily.

Marius watched her disappear between moving bodies on the dance floor and didn’t move until Courfeyrac body slammed into him, wrapping his arms around Marius’ shoulders and rubbing his face against Marius’.

“Sorry Marius, lost track of time,” Courfeyrac slurred and tugged at his arm. “We can go now.”

Marius just shook his head, craning his neck to keep track of The Angel as she radiated light from across the club. “I can’t, not yet. I’ve just met the love of my life.”

“Oh… cool,” Courfeyrac said. “Go talk to them.”

“I _can’t_.”


	8. Combeferre/Courfeyrac

Courfeyrac took a drink and nearly spit it back out again. He choked it down, coughing as Bahorel beat him on the back. His shoulders ached from the force of it, but he just pointed at the small group of their friends hovering on the edge of the dance floor. “Is that… who is that. Why is he… why does he look like Combeferre. That’s not Combeferre!”

Bahorel followed his finger and laughed, hitting Courfeyrac on the shoulder again (he really should stop doing that if he wanted Courfeyrac in one piece). “Never seen Ferre dance?”

“Yes, I have,” Courfeyrac said indignantly. “He’s awkward and his elbows stick out and his knees do this really hilarious _thing_.” Except that was definitely Combeferre dancing with the girls. Instead of the jerky movements Courfeyrac had laughed at during their freshman dance, he moved fluid and easy, just a bit too suggestive with his hips for Courfeyrac’s health.

Combeferre happened to look up and catch them watching. He smiled faintly, too far away for Courfeyrac to tell if it was shy or smug. Either was possible and either made his skin a little too warm.

Or maybe that was the shot he just knocked back. Whatever. He couldn’t be expected to keep track when Combeferre, his best friend and maybe-sorta crush since forever, was moving like that to music that shouldn’t be allowed in the jeans Jehan should be banned from buying him.

This was… so unfair.

The worst.

Absolutely, completely awful and—

Combeferre caught him watching again and did smile this time, beckoning to him with a finger.

—clearly the best night of his life.

He shot across the club as if on a rubber band Combeferre controlled, and left Bahorel’s booming laughter far behind.

**Author's Note:**

> prompts taken from this list: http://sawneesnowstar.tumblr.com/post/101480738789
> 
> They're all pretty short as is, but I may add second parts later to certain drabbles. We'll see.


End file.
